Bran Meets Mercy for the First Time
by roosmith
Summary: WARNING: Read Silence Fallen FIRST - SPOILERS Bran discovers Mercy has been taken and may be in mortal danger. As he waits for news, he reflects upon their first meeting.
1. Chapter 1

SPOILER WARNING: Read Silence Fallen FIRST.

CHAPTER ONE

 _(Takes place during Silence Fallen)_

Bran felt his beast rage to the surface with shocking force. Momentarily caught off guard, he braced against the kitchen counter as he fought to regain the upper hand. Pain . . . fear . . . rage pulsed through every part of him – both man and beast. The knife he had been using to prepare the steaks for dinner sliced into his hand as the feelings intensified. The beast was frantic in a way Bran had never experienced. Then . . . nothing.

Nothing was worse. The beast went crazy – the man did not feel too far behind. Bran needed to convince the wolf who lived within to cede control to the man so he could discover what had happened. He pushed against the beast, sweat breaking out as the beast pushed back.

 _Kill! Tear! Maim! Make them pay! Make them ALL pay!_

 _You are not helping. This is not helping – whom shall we kill? Where are they? Allow me to discover who has wronged us._

The beast struggled against Bran's words for a moment before they seemed to break through its frantic behavior. The beast seemed to consider Bran's words. After a moment, it stilled.

 _Find them. Kill them._

Bran dropped the knife onto the counter and took a deep breath. He reached out through his pack bounds, first checking on Aspen Creek. His pack was stressed (apparently, some portion of the pain/fear/rage had swept out from him to his people) but they were not the source and were already calming. He closed his eyes and stretched – stretched through the pack bounds to his people throughout the United States, looking for signs of distress.

 _You waste time! You KNOW who is hurt! You KNOW who needs us!_

Bran opened his eyes in surprise. Did he? His heart was racing, sweat was running down his back. Every muscle in his body was stressed to the point of snapping.

 _When did we last feel this distressed? Who leaves us frantic and crazy?_

Suddenly, with a sick feeling in his gut, Bran knew the answer – because there was only ever one who could make him lose control in such a fashion. Not even his sons could make him this wild. They were werewolves, old and strong in their own right. No, only one was weak and fragile and _breakable_. He had not felt this level of _distress_ (the beast snorted at the use of such a weak word for what he was feeling) since his Porsche had been wrapped around tree in what seemed like another lifetime.

Mercy.

 _Mercy,_ the beast repeated _. She HURT and then she was GONE._

Bran staggered into the chair at the kitchen table, his legs collapsing beneath him as the weight of the beast's words hit him like a blow. He remembered the pain that had seared through him only moments ago. He didn't think a tiny coyote girl could have survived whatever had caused such agony. That he could no longer sense her at all only strengthened the idea that she was gone.

 _No,_ the beast stated emphatically, _not dead. Death has a different feel – you know this. They are using witchcraft to keep her from us. Kill them._

Bran allowed the beast's assurance to flow through him. His beast was sure Mercy lived still. Bran had long gotten used to his beast having knowledge Bran did not. If the beast did not doubt she lived, then Mercy was alive.

Bran closed his eyes and breathed in the certainty . . . Mercy lives . . . Mercy lives . . . Mercy lives . . . the words pulsed through his body with every beat of his heart . . . Mercy lives . . . Mercy lives . . . Mercy lives . . .

"Da?"

Bran's eyes remained closed for another heartbeat. He opened them to look at his son. He'd known Charles and Anna would come. As soon as Bran realized the pack had not been insulated from the intense shockwave of pain and fear, he'd known they would come.

"Mercy is in trouble." Bran was shocked at how calm his voice sounded.

"Did she finally manage to get herself killed?"

Sometimes Bran's mate did not have any sense of survival at all. Bran turned to look at her where she stood, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. At the same moment his wolf drove her to her knees with violent force. She yelped in surprise and fear. Bran might have had more self-control if Leah had managed to hide the glee the idea of Mercy's death put into her voice. But he had not completely recovered from his own grief at the thought, and he had no patience or kindness to spare for one who had always openly hated Mercy, who had actively sought her death.

Bran slowly stalked over to Leah, a snarl on his lips. Baring his teeth, he grouched down next to her so they were face to face. Leah stared hard at the floor, Bran's powerful anger causing her to pant in distress.

"Enough," Bran spoke so quietly, a human ear would not have heard him. "Mercy is _mine_. She will always be _mine_." And because the beast was equally angry with Leah and wished to punish her – and the beast was far crueler than Bran – the beast added, "Mercy is _mine_ in a way you will _never_ be able to claim. We have use for you and so you remain. That may not always be true."

Leah shook with stress and fear, tears pooling in her eyes. Bran could feel her despair and pain, but he did not have the patience or time to care.

 _Later_ , his wolf counseled, _she will keep._

Bran stood up and looked down at his mate, not for the first time, regretting the reality which made her presence necessary to his life. Who that regret was aimed at – himself or Leah – he could not be sure.

"Leave. Leave this house. Go visit _friends_ , go for a run, go shopping . . . I cannot care. Just go."

Leah bolted to her feet and was gone out the front door as if the devil himself were chasing her. He could hear the front door swinging lightly as the wind caught it. Leah had not bothered to close it – an act of minor, petty defiance. Charles followed her out of the kitchen to see to the door.

"You'll feel badly about that later, you know."

Bran sighed and turned to look at his daughter-in-law. She was casually leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at him with reproach.

"You always do," she added chidingly. Anna tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, examining him thoughtfully. "What is going on?"

Charles returned at this point, walked over to the kitchen table and pointedly took a seat. Anna shrugged and joined him. Bran gave his shoulders one last stretch and grabbed the seat across from his son. He knew Anna was right, but he had no energy to spare for future regrets.

"Mercy." He choked on her name. Bran took a deep breath and tried again. "Mercy is hurt."

"How do you _know_ that?" Anna asked, her voice filled with curiosity, "I thought you severed your bond with Adam's pack."

Charles made a chuffing sound which was close to a scoff. "Da's bond with Mercy has nothing to do with _pack_. She is _his_ – both man and wolf claim her."

Anna looked at Charles and then back to Bran, her expression confused. "I get that you love Mercy and claim rights over her – though we all know what Mercy would say about that if she knew – I don't understand how that allows you to connect with her. She is not a werewolf and Charles told me magic responds strangely to her."

Bran shrugged, "I don't know that I have a clear answer – 'who knows' works as good as any other. I do not feel her like _pack_ – she is not pack. She is something _more_. She lives in a place no one else – no man or animal – touches." Suddenly energized by fury and fear, Bran bounded out of the chair and began pacing. "I am not always aware of her. I cannot call her up as I can those who are pack. But when she is injured . . ." He had to pause to regain control of his wolf who roared to the forefront in a rage. "When she is seriously injured and in pain, when she is in _need_ , Mercy is _present_."

Charles watched his father pace for a moment before speaking. "Can you feel her now? I assume the pain that leaked through to the rest of us was much less than what you were receiving. What I felt was pretty intense." Charles paused, wondering how his father would react to his next question. Surely his father had already thought of the possibilities? "I'm not sure a human – or a mostly human (like Mercy went unsaid) could survive the injuries caused by that amount of pain."

Charles and Anna both braced themselves for Bran's reaction. Charles placed his weight on his feet, flat on the floor, ready to jump up and restrain his father if the wolf took control. Anna breathed in, collecting calm around her so she could 'zap' Bran with it if needed.

Both reactions were unnecessary. Bran shook his head. "She lives." He smiled wryly, "My wolf has his uses. He is convinced of her survival. In this, I trust the wolf; he has a better grasp on such things."

This knowledge allowed Bran to retake his seat at the table. "The pain . . . the pain was alarming – is alarming, but what has me . . . concerned (that word was carefully chosen above other words, such as enraged, berserk, struggling for self-control) . . . is what followed."

Charles and Anna patiently waited as Bran thought through what had occurred. "I was momentarily paralyzed by the pain – it was a blinding, intense agony that filled my body." He took a deep breath and continued, "She wasn't just hurt. Mercy was scared and angry too . . . I felt it all . . . and then I felt nothing, like her existence was severed from me."

Charles say up in alarm. "Nothing? And you are sure she lives still?"

Bran waved his question away with an impatient hand. "Someone is intentionally blocking Mercy – my guess is with witchcraft. The question is why?"

"You should call Adam," Anna said decisively, "find out what he knows. Find out how we can help."

Bran and Charles were shaking their heads before Anna was done speaking.

"We cannot contact Adam," Charles responded. "He and his pack are no longer our concern. Da cannot break with that decision. The ripple effect could be disastrous."

Anna huffed impatiently. "Mercy is obviously in trouble. She's alive – but for how long? Are you really going to stand back and do nothing? If she dies, you will never forgive yourself."

 _If she dies,_ Charles thought, _we are in serious trouble from Da and his beast._

"We have to be seen as impartial. It doesn't mean we will sit back and do nothing," Charles answered before his father could speak and say something impolitic. "Someone in Adam's pack will call us." At this statement, Charles turned and looked at his father.

"Chris - Chris Rockland."

"Chris Rockland," Charles continued, "will contact Da and let him know what is going on. Once we know the details, we can decide the best way to assist. Until then, we wait."

Anna made another impatient sound but otherwise kept her thoughts to herself. She stood and walked over to the steaks that Bran had been preparing.

"Might as well keep busy while we wait," she said with false cheerfulness, as she took over getting dinner ready.

Bran and Charles settled themselves at the table to wait for the phone to ring with news.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Bran roared with rage, throwing his phone across the room where it shattered into dust. The Lord of the Night had taken Mercy – may have mortally wounded her in the process. No one knew where she had been taken or how hurt she was. No one knew how to get her back to safety. Man and beast went wild, smashing everything in their path.

A wave of calm hit Bran like a tsunami. _Anna_ , he thought as he fell onto his hands and knees. He stared at the floor, panting, struggling for some semblance of control.

 _Mercy!_ Pain lanced through him, rage and fear fought for control over him. _Mercy!_

"Da," his son's voice sounded a touch impatient, allowing Bran to know how truly worried Charles was feeling. "What do you want to do? Who do you want to send to retrieve her?"

Bran closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. _Calm_ , he thought. Going berserk, acting rashly and with brute force was only going to get Mercy killed. _Or killed sooner,_ the wolf whispered to him. _Not helping_ , Bran barked in return. Somehow, snapping at his wolf allowed Bran to regain control of himself.

He slowly rose to his feet and focused on what was important. Mercy. He looked over at his son and sighed. _Reality sucks_ , Bran thought, channeling a touch of Mercy. It sounded like something she would say.

"We can't interfere – you especially can't interfere."

Charles made an impatient noise. "Then send someone else – Asil" (he flinched as he said the old wolf's name, immediately recognizing the foolishness of such a suggestion) "Someone," he restated. "You can't seriously expect us to leave her in the hands of that bloodsucker and do _nothing_."

Bran turned away from Charles. He placed his hands on the counter and bent his head. "If we go rushing in," he growled, "If we act rashly. We will lose her."

He felt Anna place a tentative hand on his shoulder. _Dear Anna. Such a gift_. He reached around and grabbed her hand fiercely, allowing her presence to center him. Touching her, he could think clearly again. He let go of her hand, giving it one last squeeze of thanks, and then turned around to face his son.

"We don't have enough information – why did he take her? What does he want? How badly is she urt? What does he expect for her return?"

When Charles made a derisive sound, Bran held up his hand to keep his son's comments at bay.

"Yes, we could go to the Lord of the Night, destroy him – take back what is ours and make sure _no one_ ever considers harming her again." Bran had to pause to clamp down on the beast who thought that idea was _perfect_. After a moment of struggle, Bran continued, "But Bonarata serves a purpose. If we eliminate him – and that is still a possibility, a possibility I would like to avoid – his extermination will leave a huge hole that will create ripples throughout Europe for decades. Instability creates uncertainty. We have enough uncertainty with everything that is happening with the fae."

"So we do _nothing_?" Charles managed to sound appalled without changing the inflection of his voice.

"We wait. We wait to see what Adam finds out from that bitch who used to serve Bonarata. We wait to see where we can best be utilized." Bran smiled and shook his head. "And knowing Mercy, by the time we finish running around in circles trying to save her, she'll have saved herself, burned his seethe to the ground and be on a plane headed home."

Anna laughed, "At the very least, she'll make him regret taking her in the first place."

The laughter from Charles and Bran was a little forced but they both _wanted_ to believe. She was the daughter of Coyote, after all.

Sobering, Bran looked at his son. "Regardless of where she is, you cannot be part of the rescue effort, Charles. Bonarata knows you – and he will expect you to come. Once you are in his territory, you become . . . a complicated hostage. You are a thread that leads back to _me_ . . . if you harmed Bonarata or any of his people, you'd give him just cause for starting a war with me . . . we – none of us, not even Bonarata – can afford such a war."

Bran could see when Charles begrudgingly agreed with his assessment. "As it is, Mercy is likely to start a war with the vampires without any help from us. The best we can do is attempt damage control when all the dust settles."

"Go home," Bran told both Anna and Charles. When it looked like they were about to object, he gave his daughter-in-law a gentle push. "We can't make any plans until Adam hears from Bonarata again. That will most likely take several hours. Go home, get rest . . . enjoy each other's company. I will let you know the moment I hear anything – and you will do the same."

"What about you?" Anna's voice was laced with love and concern.

"I'm going to go into my office and find some work to distract me." No one believed him but no one contradicted him either. Charles and Anna allowed themselves to be escorted out the door.

Once they were gone, Bran meandered his way around the house. He found himself leaning in the doorway, staring into his office.

 _This is the room where I first held Mercy,_ he thought, _this is where she became MINE._


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Bran heard her approaching his front door and put his hand on the handle, preparing to open it. He reminded himself once again of the extremely large favor he owed to the old wolf who set up this meeting.

"Meet with her," Jack had requested, knowing Bran could not refuse. "I'm not asking you to make any assurances. Meet with her, hear her out. That's all I ask."

"That's the favor?" Bran tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice, but he was sure his old friend could hear it.

"Yes, you old dog," the old man's voice was laced with humor. "Do this and consider us even."

"What is so special about this girl?"

Jack grunted into the phone. "I've already told you all I'm going to tell. She's young – sixteen – and a new single mom. She's in a bit of trouble, and I think you can help."

Now, standing at the door, waiting for the girl to reach it, Bran re-examined his friend's words from several different angles, trying to see where this situation was headed. He knew there was more than Jack told him. The fact that he couldn't figure it out was troubling.

Bran opened the door while she was still walking up the stairs to his home. Leaning against the doorframe, he took a moment to observe her. She was short and thin, with delicate features and a small frame. She looked fragile, but he didn't allow himself to be fooled. Somehow, this little girl had convinced Jack – a wolf he knew to be completely devoid of sentimentality, especially towards humans – to call in a decades old favor. Bran narrowed his eyes at her. Was she human?

As she came to stand in front of him, he inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing her in. She smelled undeniably human. The bundle she carried in her arms, on the other hand . . . he inhaled again . . . _what is that smell?_

"Are you Bran?" The young mother asked, her voice shaky but strong. She met his eyes with her own, her chin raised in defiance. She was scared but was determined not to show it.

Bran allowed her to hold his gaze for a moment before his wolf forced her to look away. She gave an almost imperceptible yelp and stared hard at the floor. _Ah,_ he thought, _his old friend must have coached her on how to act around him._ The thought irritated him. It showed a preference for this girl he had never seen in Jack before. _What was her hold on the old wolf?_

"Yes, I am Bran," he answered, "please come in. It's bitterly cold."

He allowed her to walk past him into his home. He closed the door and helped her navigate taking off her hat and coat. He moved around her and led the way into his study. He stepped aside to allow her to enter first and then gestured at the chairs nearest the fireplace.

"When Jack called to set up this meeting, he didn't see fit to share your name . . . or the name of your . . . baby."

She took her time arranging herself and her baby onto the chair. He could hear her heartbeat and see the slight shake of her hands. She was stalling out of fear, not out of some demonstration of strength, real or imagined. He relaxed and slowly sat down. He tried to look benign and harmless.

"Daughter," she spoke up finally, "she's my daughter." She cleared her throat and absently stared at the floor in front of his feet. "Her name is Mercedes – Mercy." She looked back at the sleeping bundle and smiled with obvious love and affection. He saw fear and concern flash across her face as well.

"And you – who are _you_?" Bran kept his voice soft and quiet, reminding himself not to lose patience, reminding himself that Jack had sent her to him for a reason, and it wasn't to torture him – or torturing him wasn't the sole motivation.

"Margi – Margaret Thompson." She paused, seeming to take a moment to collect her thoughts. "Uncle Jack said you might be willing to help me."

 _Ah family_ , he thought, _the pieces begin to make sense._ He hadn't realized Jack still maintained contact with his family. They would have to be into the third or fourth generation away from his own at this point. _How many greats is that_ , he thought, _Great-great-great . . . maybe one more._

He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I'm not sure yet if I can help you. Your _uncle_ wasn't very clear with me about the nature of your problem."

Margie sat up straighter, her shoulders stiff, her mouth pursed in a tight line. She once again looked him in the eyes and held his gaze. Holding her baby away from her just a touch, she said, "She turns into a coyote." She spoke emphatically and a touch too loud, as if daring him to disagree with her.

Bran stared back, blinking at the young woman. "I'm sorry – what did you say?"

She tightened her grasp on her baby, pulling the wriggling bundle back to her, and said, "The baby, my daughter . . . she turns into a coyote."

Bran found himself taking another look at the young woman – her reddish blond hair, her pale skin and freckles. She was undeniably _white._ Western European. Irish, Scottish –who knows for sure. America seemed to grab people's ancestries and shake them violently until all heritage was gone. What he knew without any doubt was Margi was not Native American. Not even a drop.

He looked at the baby in her arms. She was wrapped up inside a blanket but the parts of her which remained uncovered – her face, part of an arm, her little hands – were undeniably darker colored than her mother. Most likely Native American.

He had not come across a walker in quite some time – fifty years or more, but the walkers he knew came from two parents who were also walkers. He looked into the bright blue eyes of this young girl and _knew_ she wasn't a walker. Maybe she wasn't the baby's natural mother . . . he leaned forward and inhaled deeply, catching both their scents.

Nope. The two individuals in front of him were unquestionably related – closely related. The girl was unmistakably the baby's biological parent.

"Her father was named Joe Old Coyote," Margi continued, speaking rapidly, "He died several months back – he never got to meet Mercy. He didn't even know about her. I never saw him change into a coyote or anything. I didn't know him for very long." (She blushed a little. Then raised her chin up as if daring her complexion to blush one millimeter further) "He was a Blackfeet Indian – or at least that's what he told me – but when I went in search of his people, after she turned into a coyote for the first time – no one had ever heard of him. No one seems to have heard of babies turning into coyotes – or any other animal for that matter. But I'm not crazy."

Bran pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The young mother obviously believed what she was saying. And she did not give off any of the smells he associated with the mentally ill. She smelled clean and fresh, full of good health and youth. But what she was saying . . . it tested his substantial base of knowledge.

He reached out to his son. _Charles, please join me up at the house. Quickly please._ Let's see what he made of the pair sitting in front of him.

Throughout the girl's speech, the baby had been getting fussier and fussier. She was awake and obviously hungry and unhappy. Her tiny arms flailing, her face scrunched up in displeasure. Bran opened his mouth to offer Margi privacy so she might feed her daughter – and just like that, the baby was a puppy . . . a coyote puppy.

"Damnit!" Margi bit out, gently shaking the puppy out of the blankets she was wrapped in, pulling off clothing and the diaper.

Once the puppy – Mercedes, Bran reminded himself – was free, she happily wagged her tale and jumped to the floor.

"I never know when she's going to do that," Margi said, pointing at her daughter. "I can't work because I can't leave her with anyone. How do I explain that?"

Mercedes happily bounded around the room, exploring the new environment, sniffing around, taking in the new smells. She was most certainly a coyote. And based on how quickly and painlessly she changed from human to coyote, she was undeniably a walker. Bran was fascinated. More astonishing, his wolf was delighted, like a child who discovers a new toy with which to play.

Mercedes had managed to get herself caught up in the fringe of a blanket and began making little sounds of distress. Before he realized what he was doing, Bran found himself at her side, gently untangling her. She sniffed at his hand and growled at him. Once she was loose, she backed away from him, giving her best sneer as she did.

"Good for you," Bran said, affectionately patting her on the head. "Trust your nose." He looked over at the door and without waiting for him to knock, told his son to come in.

Charles is intimidating to everyone, even those who do not know he is his father's Justice. The moment he entered the room, Margi shot to her feet and scooped up her daughter. The pup wriggled and nipped to get free but Margi held her closer to her chest.

"Charles," Bran began as he rose to his feet, "I would like to introduce you to Margi," he gestured to the young girl, "And her daughter, Mercedes," he gestured to the wiggling puppy in her arms.

Charles' eyes widened ever so slightly. Bran knew only he would notice. Charles nodded his head towards the mother and daughter in greeting. Then he turned to his father and ever so slightly raised an eyebrow.

"When I asked you to come, Margi was explaining to me that her daughter, who was a human infant at the time, randomly turns into a coyote . . . I thought your knowledge would be useful. Since then, the situation has altered slightly – the baby _is_ a coyote."

Charles nodded his head, deep in thought. "You're white?" It came out as a question, though Margi obviously was.

Margi nodded her head. "You're asking me if I am Indian – like you or her father. You're not the first one to ask since this mess began. I don't know why that makes a difference but no, I am not – not even a little bit. As far as I know, I don't have any Native American ancestors at all."

As he turned to look at his father, Charles' expression was perplexed.

"I see you are reaching the same stumbling block I am," Bran said, "Obviously, she's a walker . . . but how is she a walker?"

Charles raised one shoulder slightly in a shrug. "Is that why she's here? To figure out why her baby is a walker? Has she tried the baby's father or his people?"

At this point, the puppy had become unmanageable, so Margi gently placed her daughter on the floor and flopped herself back into the chair. "Oh gee," she said belligerently, sounding her age for the first time, "why didn't I think of that? And really, I don't care _why_ she turns into a coyote. I went to my uncle hoping he could help me figure out how to stop it. He told me that there is no cure or whatever. She will always do this." Margi made a vague gesture towards the pup with her hand. "She will be part dog or coyote or whatever for her whole life. It's been less than three months, and I – I don't know what to do. What do I do?"

"The baby's father died before he knew Margi was pregnant," Bran explained to Charles. "She looked for his people but since she and the father hadn't known each other long, she had very little to go on. No one seems to know him."

Something tugged at Bran's pant leg. He looked down to see the little coyote attacking him. She backed up and crouched, butt wiggling in the air. Then she pounced onto his shoe, grabbing a mouthful of pant, shaking her head back and forth.

Bran couldn't help himself, he laughed. His son stared at him like he'd never seen him before. Bran didn't blame him; he felt a little foreign to himself too. The coyote managed to scrape his ankle with her teeth, causing him to wince. Bran bent down and picked her up by the scruff of the neck. As he did, Margi rose to her feet in alarm. Bran waved her back to her seat with his free hand as his other hand brought the pup to his chest.

"I mean her no harm, little girl. I mean her no harm."

Proving that she was braver than he had given her credit, Margi stepped over to him and removed her daughter from his grasp. She cradled the pup in her arms, similar to holding a baby and carried her back over to her seat. She placed the pup on her lap and absently stroked her fur.

Bran took a moment to reign in the wolf who wanted to punish the young girl for taking the coyote away just as she was starting to get interesting. As soon as he was sure he was under control, he took the seat across from Margi and gestured for his son to join them. While Charles was lowering himself into the seat next to his father, between one blink and the next, the pup turned back into a baby . . . a naked, cold, hungry baby . . . with a strong set of lungs.

She wailed and wailed as her mother redressed her and wrapped her up in blankets. Margi looked around a little frantically. "She's hungry. I need to make a bottle for her." She looked over at Bran. "Can I use your kitchen?"

"Of course," Bran replied, "Charles will show you the way." He nodded toward his son, who did not look happy at the suggestion. Just for fun, Bran added, "He'll be happy to assist you in any way you need."

Margi stood up and pulled a large bag all new mothers seem to own onto her shoulder, juggling bag and baby.

Bran hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I could – I could hold the baby while you get things ready for her . . . if you want." He held his breath and waited. He and his wolf wanted Margi to say yes. Bran couldn't remember _wanting_ anything this strongly before – ever.

Margi eyed him nervously for a few heartbeats before agreeing. She slowly approached Bran as if she suspected the dangerous animal within. Bran kept himself absolutely still, fearful that if he moved, she would change her mind. Both adults kept their eyes on the baby as Margi lowered her daughter into the Marrok's arms. He was pretty sure only his son knew how eager he'd been.

Margi turned and followed Charles out of the study, presumably to go to the kitchen, but Bran did not even mark their exit. The moment the full weight of the tiny creature (what little there was of it) was pressed into him, both beast and man claimed her. _MINE_.

 _We will keep her_ , his wolf said eagerly, _That little girl is too young. What does she know of an animal who needs to be wild and free to run and hunt._

Mercedes had quieted in his arms. She had one hand in her mouth and was intently sucking on her fingers. She stared up at Bran with large, dark eyes, holding him completely entranced.

 _We can't take a baby away from her mother_ , he tried to make it sound like he hadn't been contemplating that exact thing.

 _We won't have to_ , the wolf practically purred at him. Bran could feel the wolf trying to push his will onto the man. _She is struggling with mothering one such as this._

Bran considered the situation for a moment. Margi was only sixteen – young by today's standards. Other than a distant uncle (who had pawned her off on Bran), she seemed to be completely alone. A single mother with no support. A difficult position for a teenage girl with a human baby. Add a baby who randomly turns into an animal . . .

 _Yes,_ the wolf agreed, _we will keep her. She will thrive here. Her mother will thank us. She will be_ grateful.

Bran shook his head and chuckled softly. His wolf was not the best at understanding _humans._ Bran wasn't so sure about the gratitude. But, he realized with horrifying certainty, he did not care how the baby's mother felt – this child _belonged_ to him.

"Mine," he whispered.

 _Yes._

But how . . . Bran started wondering about the logistical nightmare keeping the little coyote was going to cause . . . the less stable wolves who would see her as prey. Leah, who would resent Mercedes existence and actively seek her death . . . and Margi . . . what to do about Margi . . .

 _We will make this work. We are Marrok. No one will defy us. Including the mother. She will leave the pup with us and go live her life away . . ._

Bran chuckled as he realized the wolf did not have a thought about where _away_ was – the wolf didn't care. Neither did Bran really. Both man and wolf agreed the young mother could not stay in Aspen Creek, could not remain in Mercedes' life. He could not guarantee long term safety for a human with no connection to any wolf or wolf family. Aspen Creek had enough issues without inviting an untethered human to stay.

Bran sighed. And he was about to compound those issues by taking in a coyote walker. And he _was_ going to take her in. He may not have all of the logistics figured out – he knew the infant could not stay with him. Leah would see his affection for the baby and would destroy her the first moment his back was turned. He needed a home, parents to raise her. He needed . . . thoughts spun around in his head . . .

Mercedes reached up with her tiny hand and grabbed onto Bran's finger. He was a little startled by the strength in her grasp. He didn't normally hold babies – not even the children of pack members. He smiled down at her as she crept into his heart.

 _I will make this work. Whatever it takes. I will make this work, Little One._


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

And he had made it work. Mercy had grown up – thrived even – in Aspen Creek. Those sixteen years were some of the most trying and unpredictable years of his extensive life. And he had loved every frustrating, infuriating moment.

Now, Mercy was gone – kidnapped – and he could not do anything to free her.

"Adam called," Charles' voice interrupted Bran's thoughts. "He heard from Bonarata. They took Mercy to Milan. Bonarata invited Adam and a limited crew to be _his guests_. Adam wanted to know if I'd be willing to fly co-pilot. I explained to him that you and I had discussed the possibility, and I was not the best choice for this particular trip."

Bran looked up from his desk, where he hadn't been looking at anything anyway, and examined his son. Charles looked as agitated as Bran felt.

"I pointed him in Austin Harris' direction. Adam's going to need someone who won't mind having all sorts of passengers."

Austin Harris. Suddenly struck with an idea, Bran perked up a little. Bran was correct to convince Charles he was not the right fit for this rescue venture. However . . .

"How long would it take you to gas up the plane and get me to Northern California?"

Charles eyed suspiciously. "Why?"

Bran gave his son a wolfish smile, baring his teeth. "Because Austin still needs a co-pilot."

Charles shook his head. "Da, you know you can't go. If I can't go, you can't go."

Bran waved off his concerns. "You are recognizable, my son. Even if Bonarata had not had a few run-ins with you, he would _know_ you. Me?" Bran raised himself out of his chair and walked around the desk. Gesturing to himself he said, "I am . . . forgettable."

He walked towards Charles, his body language changing subtly as he moved. "Besides, who says _I'm_ going?" The changes weren't big or obvious, just a slight dip of his head, a dropping of his eyes. "Adam should bring a submissive wolf as co-pilot, don't you agree? Someone who will not draw undue attention from the Lord of the Night."

Charles frowned. "You don't really expect that to work?" He held up his hand to keep his father from interrupting. "Yes, you've done it before but it's not just you. Adam will have to sell it. He'll have to _lie_ – and not simply in words but with his body language and pack hierarchy. And then there is whoever he brings with him. Adam's pack _knows_ you. They will all need to lie as well."

Bran narrowed his eyes. "I am going."

Charles internally shook his head but refrained from commenting any further on his father's plan. "I can have you at Austin's landing strip in a couple of hours."

Bran nodded his head and moved to leave the room. "I'll go throw a few things together. I can call Adam once we're in the air and tell him the plan . . . my submissive wolf will need a name . . ." Bran was walking through the doorway when he suddenly stopped and let out a laugh. "Oh!" he said, "she'll really get a kick out of that one!"

He didn't share and Charles didn't ask him to.


End file.
